


The Devil and the Deep Blue

by DaniStormborn



Category: BioShock
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaniStormborn/pseuds/DaniStormborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinah Snow has known Frank Fontaine for a very long time. In fact, she's known Fontaine from when he was up on the surface - when his last name had been Gorland, Barris, Wiston, Moskowitz, and Wang. In fact, Frank Fontaine was who bought her, her ticket to the underwater world of Rapture, and after years of not seeing a peep of each other, they come careening back into each other's lives like it's fate. </p>
<p>Except this time, Fontaine has something up his sleeve . . . something that he just itching to drag Dinah into . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first BioShock fic, but definitely the first one I feel good about. Hope you guys like it, like my OC, and please, please, please leave those Kudos' and reviews -- they are awesome!
> 
> And by the way . . . if you read a BioShock fic with Fontaine in it and don't immediately envision Tom Hardy playing the titular role, then I . . . by God, I don't want to be around you!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BioShock, Rapture, Frank Fontaine, etc etc. The only one I own is my OC -- Dinah.
> 
> \-- Nagiana

* * *

 

_“I don't want you but I hate to lose you_

_You got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea_

_I forgive you 'cause I can't forget you_

_You got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea_

_I want to cross you off my list_

_But when you come knocking at my door_

_Fate seems to give my heart a twist_

_And I come running back for more_

_I should hate you but I guess I love you_

_You got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea . . .”_

\-- “Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea” by Ella Fitzgerald

* * *

 

_Fontaine Futuristics_

_Rapture, 1958_

 

“And what’s ya name again, doll-face?”

 

The woman in front of him grimaced in distaste at the term of endearment falling from his lips, but she did give him an answer, nevertheless. “Snow . . . Dinah Snow. Not Die-nah, but Dee-nah. Just remove the ‘H’ and you’ve got it.”

 

Stanley Poole nodded as he jogged after her down shining linoleum lined corridor after shining linoleum lined corridor of Fontaine Futuristics towards Frank Fontaine’s office, scribbling her name in his coffee-stained notebook as he went. Briefly, he turned his eyes onto the woman marching ahead of him, and allowed his eyes to linger on her hindquarters for a moment, where he eyed it appreciatively. Her words had been spoken in a soft, lilting tone that, quite frankly, the weasel looking reporter didn’t think he could ever get enough of. In all honesty, he could fully understand why this little cherry tart was Frank Fontaine’s so-called “girl”. It was obvious that the man was drawn to beautiful things, and what was Dinah Snow if not beautiful?

 

When she first met him down in the lobby to escort him up to her boss and boyfriend’s office (of course, those terms were not often used interchangeably, or even in the same sentence as the other due to professionalism), he was surprised at the sight of her, expecting to see anything _but_ the woman standing in front of him. He was fully expecting to see a prim and prudish schoolmarm. But no, the woman who had greeted him and told him to follow her in a clipped tone after asking if he was who he said he was, whirled around on black heeled feet and walked off. She had been clad in a simple white blouse and black pencil skirt, with a gold locket hanging around her neck on a delicate gold chain. Black stockings had complimented the ensemble _and_ her rather marvelous legs.

 

When he first caught sight of her making her way towards him, he had immediately taken notice of way her hips had been sashaying back and forth when she moved.

 

_Sashaying_ , not swinging.

 

A cigarette had been dangling from between her fingers, that was _clearly_ one of her boyfriend’s smuggled in packs because it smelled of actual earth and water tobacco and not that manufactured crap that Andrew Ryan sold for half the price. When she stopped and caught sight of him sitting in one of the plush leather seats of the lobby, all pale, ivory skin, short, ebony black hair done up in fingerwaves, scarlet painted lips and white-blue eyes surrounded in ink black kohl, he knew he had been struck dumb for the first time in years. There were plenty of beautiful dames remaining in the city – Eve’s Garden was a veritable _haven_ of them -- but _this_ one . . . since when did Frank Fontaine, the so-called Boogeyman of Rapture, get to have a woman this damn beautiful?

 

“You Stanley Poole, Frank’s ten-thirty?”

 

He gave a rather weak nod at her words. She had been escorted down by what Stanley assumed was Fontaine’s two bodyguards. They were two massive Irish meatheads Fontaine found down at the docks, and who he knew by sheer reputation alone, as Doogie Flanery and Reggie O’Donnell. He also had it on good authority that the two numbskulls couldn’t do the most basic of math but knew a thousand different ways to kill or seriously maim someone – nine hundred and ninety of which could be made to look like accidents if done correctly. Understandably, Frank Fontaine could occasionally utilize such men in his business dealings, so they were useful to him. They were also there to cover his ass in a firefight, as well as make sure his girl went unharassed as she went about her _and_ his business in Rapture. However, those gunfights were rare events in Rapture. No one wanted to disturb the fragile peace of the underground utopia that was Andrew Ryan’s love child with his own overvalued genius.

 

But _damn_ it all if Fontaine wasn’t a _very_ lucky man! And Stanley was pretty sure he could name quite a few influential men off the top of his head who probably thought the same, too, upon sight of her.

 

She gave a tight smile and jerked her head in the direction she had come from. “Follow me then, please, Mr. Poole,” Stanley gave a quick, jerky nod of his head as he jumped to his feet and followed her. “Just talking about the new plasmids today, right?”

 

Stanley jumped at her words as they were spoken on that same soft, lilting voice he had heard earlier. However, this time, he swiftly caught ahold of the fact that it was tinged with a slight Bronx accent that was wholly indifferent to the one Fontaine carried. This, Stanley hadn’t noticed before, and immediately felt his interest peaked because of it. Fontaine also spoke with a Bronx accent. Of course, it was heavier than this woman’s was, but, nevertheless . . . he couldn’t help but wonder if the two of them had known each other before Rapture.

 

After a minute, he gave a quick nod. “Y-yeah, sounds ‘bout right,” He answered before jogging up to meet her stride. She sent him an amused smile and Stanley swallowed hard as the two beefy numbskulls behind them scowled and hurried to catch up to them, their hands curling into ham-sized fists as they did so. Dinah released an amused laugh and continued on at the same pace as she had before.

 

“I’d be careful about making any more of those rash movements, Mr. Poole. The Dobermans don’t like rash movements.”

 

Glancing over his shoulder at Doogie and Reggie, he swallowed heavily again before nodding. After a moment, he spoke, starting to feel out of breath from the fast pace she was intent on keeping. “Y-you speak with the same accent as Fontaine. Did you two know each other before coming here?”

 

Dinah glanced at him, her grin and look of amusement gone. Turning her gaze back ahead of them, she chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, as if ruminating on whether or not she should answer his question. Eventually, she spoke, and Stanley refrained from releasing a breath of relief. For a minute there, he had been scared she would sic the so-called ‘Dobermans’ on him.

 

“Knew each other? Mr. Poole, I came down here _with_ him, little known fact _that_ is. The man bought my ticket and everything.”

 

Stanley’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline in surprise. She came down here _with_ him? He had bought the very ticket that had allowed it? He hadn’t known either of those facts – very little known, indeed! In fact, up ‘til a few weeks ago, nobody even knew Fontaine _had_ a girlfriend until they were seen together in Fort Frolic at one of Sandor Cohen’s art shows a little too close and affectionate than he had been willing to show with a woman in public, before. How had he managed to keep her a secret for all this time?

 

She seemed to read his mind, for she shook her head. “I don’t see the harm in telling you – after all, it is the past, and what is Rapture if not moving forward? It wasn’t like that, though. We were friends up on the surface and he offered to bring me down here with him if I wanted to. I said yes – of course I would, who wouldn’t -- and I lived with him when we first came down here – when he _worked_ at the fisheries instead of owning them. Then, I got a job at Eve’s Garden working as a bartender, got fired, and then worked at a waitress at the Kashmir and Pharaoh’s Fortune. We went our separate ways for a while before my job at the Garden, and we lost track of each other. One day, I showed up at work – this was when I was working at the Fortune – and saw Fontaine sitting at a table, puffing on expensive cigars, and laughing and rubbing elbows with a few of Rapture elite. He noticed me, we got to talking after his buddies left, and he told me to come on by his office the next day – that he had a job waiting for me. He said that no friend of his was going to be scraping the bottom of Rapture’s barrel by working as a waitress at a damn casino when he was raking in bushels of cash doing what he did here. So I quit my job at Pharaoh’s Fortune and moved to work as his secretary. I don’t regret the move. I get better money that I ever would have earned anywhere else, better job security than anywhere else, _and_ good benefits, too.”

 

“When did you and Fontaine become officially exclusive?”

 

Dinah glanced at him then, a small, amused smile on her face. “Now _that_ , Mr. Poole, is where I draw the line at: “It’s-None-Of-Your-Business”. Not that we were _ever_ completely exclusive ‘til now, mind you . . .”

 

Doogey and Reggie guffawed from behind them while Stanley gave a little scowl. They too, seemed completely unfazed by the fast pace, while Stanley was seriously starting to regret his life choice of smoking a pack a day. “Fine then, can you at least answer this: are you living with him again?”

 

Dinah gave a laugh as they reached the elevators. Pressing the button, she turned to him, that amused smile remaining. Doogie and Reggie came to a stop beside them, forming two hulking shadows that towered over their smaller heights. Dinah seemed completely unfazed by this overshadowing while Stanley reflexively swallowed. Of course, why would she? She was a tiny woman with a six foot two boyfriend who was bigger than a bull with just as much muscle. Of _course_ she’d be used to men towering over her. He, however, with his tall, gangly frame, wasn’t.

 

“Now, wouldn’t that be a juicy little piece of information that you’d like to get your hands on, Mr. Poole? Remember, though: you’re only here for a piece on the new plasmids, not me and Fontaine’s sex life,” She looked at the two hulking bodyguards beside them, and they shared an amused smile. “In fact . . . I’m pretty damn sure that’s the fastest way to piss Frank off: ask how long we’ve been fucking. He _loves_ people who try to pry into his private life -- especially his private life with me.”

 

The boys grinned and guffawed again as the elevator finally reached them, where the door rattled opened with a cheerful ‘ding’. They filed inside, the small space seemingly much too crowded with the two bodyguards in there taking up two thirds of the space. Stanley couldn’t help but feel ever-so-slightly claustrophobic, but thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long.

 

The doors rumbled open when they reached the correct floor, and the three men waited for Dinah to leave first before following in-step behind her. This time, Stanley lagged behind with the two bodyguards walking behind him, and it wasn’t long before they reached the lobby of Frank Fontaine’s office. Immediately, Doogie and Reggie moved to stand beside what Stanley assumed was the polished mahogany of Dinah’s desk, as she moved towards the door. Motioning him to follow her, Stanley hurried to do so as she opened the door and allowed them both entrance.

 

Stanley immediately felt overwhelmed by the sheer luxuriousness of Frank Fontaine’s office. Where Andrew Ryan’s was very modernist and Augustus Sinclair very Deep South, Frank Fontaine’s was very reminiscent of a Mafia Don’s. Dark woods, plush dark carpeting, leather chairs – even a stuffed polar bear stood behind his desk that was very reminiscent of its owner. He walked, dazed, towards the desk at the head of the room while Dinah continued onwards to it at her usual fast, confidant pace. Fontaine had been standing at his desk, hands buried in his pockets as he studied the contents of an open folder laying in front of him. Upon their entrance, he casually closed the folder as if he contained nothing more interesting than that evening’s dinner menu at the Kashmir. Turning his eyes onto the two people in front of him, Stanley watched as Fontaine reached an arm out to her, where he wrapped it around her as she neared him. Pressing a kiss to his lips, she soon stepped away and held out a hand towards Stanley. He hurried up his pace at the sight.

 

“Frank, this is Stanley Poole, the . . . _journalist_ who’s writing the piece on the new set of plasmids coming out . . .”

 

The look in Fontaine’s eyes when he gazed at him was one of cold guardedness. The arm he had around Dinah’s waist, immediately turned into one of protectiveness. Obviously, Fontaine didn’t trust him, and Stanley could understand why. A man like Fontaine, didn’t trust easy, if he trusted at all. It made him wonder if he even trusted Dinah like he wanted everyone to think he did.

 

But, of course, he could be wrong. Very wrong. After all, what was it the rumors whispered: “Frank Fontaine and Dinah Snow, Two Against the World”?

 

After a moment, Fontaine gave a perfunctory nod, and stepped away from Dinah and towards him. Stanley resisted the urge to step back upon the massive bulk of Frank Fontaine moving to tower over him, knowing that it would only tip things further into Fontaine’s favor. That, and he _really_ didn’t want Frank Fontaine knowing he was afraid of him.

 

Even though he probably already knew. He was the Boogeyman of Rapture – _everyone_ was afraid of him!

 

“Nice to meet ya, Stanley. Go head, have a seat. Drink?”

 

Stanley shook his head as he took a seat in one of the leather armchair in front of Fontaine’s desk. Dinah smiled and turned to move to the wet bar, no doubt to fetch Fontaine his usual. Frank moved and took a seat in the armchair beside him. Reaching onto his desk, he opened a case and withdrew an already cut cigar. Placing it in-between his teeth, he lit it with a silver lighter. He didn’t ask Stanley if he would care for one, and Stanley didn’t ask.

 

“So . . . what do ya wanna know?” Fontaine asked, only after Dinah handed him his tumbler of bourbon. Stanley swallowed hard and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. His palms were sweaty – Jesus Christ, he never remembered his palms sweating so much in his life!

 

“So, uh . . . I plan on keepin’ this short, Mr. Fontaine – I know how much of a busy man ya are, so why don’t we just, uh . . . start out with this question? It’s been a few years since you first starting developing plasmids . . .”

* * *

The door to Fontaine’s office, shut behind Stanley with nary a sound when he left. When the weasel-looking reporter was done and heading for the door, Fontaine shook his head as he pulled out his tie and released a weary breath. Dinah gave him a small smile over her shoulder as she cleaned up around the wet bar. It was time they started getting ready to head off to lunch at their usual table at the Kashmir, and Dinah loathed leaving a dirty wet bar behind them (a trait she harkened back to her old bartending days at the Garden).

 

“Swear to God, Dinah -- I’m gettin’ too old for this shit!”

 

Dinah gave a loving chuckle, and shook her head. “You ain’ gettin’ _too_ old, Frank. I wouldn’ worry ‘bout it,” She shot him an amused glance over her shoulder again “By the way, he was askin’ a lot of questions ‘bout us on the way up. Just ask the two goons outside. They were there. They heard.”

 

Fontaine shot her a curious look. “What was he askin’?”

 

Dinah gave a shrug. “Oh, the usual: were we livin’ together, when’d we become official – did we come down together,” She sent him a smile. “He recognized my accent, that’s why he was askin’.”

 

Fontaine chuckled and moved over to stand beside her. His appeared on her lower back – a comfortable weight that remained there for a moment before trailing down to settle on her ass. “Oh? And what’d ya tell him?”

 

Dinah smiled and gave another little shrug. “Just that it wasn’ his business. That it was _no one’s_ business but ours.”

 

Fontaine gave a satisfied nod of his head before grinning and winking. “So ya _didn’_ tell him about the first time we met?”

 

Dinah gave a snort of laughter and a roll of her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Of _course_ I didn’! That story’s just plain embarrassin’!”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fontaine smile. She turned to face him, moved closer to him – sought out that warmth and comfort and safety that she only _ever_ felt with Fontaine. He pressed a loving kiss to the corner of her mouth as he spoke: “Come on, doll, we better get goin’. Wouldn’ wanna be late for lunch, now would we?”


	2. Chapter 1

_Pharaoh’s Fortune_

_Rapture, 1956_

She hadn’t expected to see him sitting there. She really hadn’t. He looked so different than she remembered, that for a moment, she questioned whether or not it really was him sitting there. His voice when he spoke or when he laughed, was still that deep, dark baritone that she remembered. He still possessed that thin fucking mustache on his upper lip (that she hated) and those deep blue eyes that she had always considered one of his finest features (those, and his ass. Frank Fontaine had one of the tightest asses she had ever seen on a man. Glorious, his ass was). Now, though, he appeared to her seated on one of those luxurious leather chairs grouped around one of the poker tables with some of Rapture’s elite, clad in a well-fitted black tux that showed off his massively muscular body in a way that those rubber waders of the Fisheries, never had. The cigar dangling precariously at the corner of his mouth, was not one of Andrew Ryan’s poor imitations, but a _real_ cigar, with _real_ tobacco, that came from a gold case he shared freely amongst those he was currently hustling out of their money.

 

The smell of the tobacco made her mouth water. It had been a long damn time since she had smoked a good cigarette. She wondered how Fontaine had gotten his hands on the ones he had with him.

 

She stood by the bar, watching him and his group for a moment. She felt herself smile when Fontaine continued to win, losing strategically every now and then to keep up appearances, and to keep the heat off him. Frank Fontaine knew how to count cards, alongside knowing how to pool like a master hustler and how to perform the most hardcore of grifts with an elegance and effortlessness that made skilled thieves and conmen envious. He was also a damn good actor, his poker face was something to be envied, and he could charm a drowning man into buying a glass of water. He had taught her those very same skills, but he wielded them with much more skill and proficiency than she ever would.

 

He didn’t look like the Frank Fontaine she used to know, but deep in her gut, she _knew_ it was.

 

For a moment – a split ripple in the fabric of time – their gazes crossed through the smoke hanging like a pall over the casino and its patrons. Gently, his eyebrows furrowed for a moment, before something was said by one of his companions that caused him to grin and laugh and forget about her. After that, every time he would look her way, the look he would give her would be fleeting and disinterested – just like she was every other waitress there.

 

The knowledge that he might not have recognized her – a woman he had known for years on the surface and who he had often called his “most promising protégée”, as well as his closest friend; who he had brought down with him, _and_ the woman he had called his lover for weeks upon reaching Rapture – hurt more than she could ever convey with just words.

 

“Hey, Dinah, darlin’, can we get some clean glasses over here?”

 

Benjamin Goodman’s “Blue Skies” was playing rather loudly over the jukebox as she plastered a smile on her face and made her way over to the poker table situated behind the one Fontaine was sitting at, from her place standing at the bar. Three men sat at the table – regulars at the casino. She shot a smile at the one who called for her (Joe, was his name? Little Joe? She couldn’t remember) and he returned the smile. Expertly juggling her tray of poker chips and clean glasses in the palm of her hand, she moved swiftly but nimbly through the smoky interior, determined to avoid the man who had bought her ticket into this underwater hellhole. Frank Fontaine could go to hell, she decided, if he didn’t remember _her_ \-- the kid who had followed him around on the surface like a lost puppy when she was still young and naïve, until he finally noticed her and took pity on her. And then later, when she became the pretty, curvaceous woman that kid had become, who sucked his cock and who he had allowed them to fuck each other stupid when they first came down here. _Fuck_ him.

 

She was moving right past Fontaine’s shoulder when his hand shot out and grabbed ahold of her wrist. She froze, her eyes growing wide, as she turned to gaze down at him. He was gazing up at her, handsome features perfectly expressionless, eyes cold. His big, powerful hand completely encompassed her wrist, and for a moment – a very _unsettling_ moment that bordered on frightening – she realized how very easy it would be for him to break her wrist with that one simple grasp, and that there would be nothing she could do to stop him. In fact, Fontaine was the type of man who had the strength to crush men’s skulls in their hands if he wanted.

 

“Can I get a double shot of bourbon whenever ya free, doll?” He asked, and Dinah vaguely felt herself nod, completely flabbergasted that he could _ever_ have forgotten her. Had she truly meant so little to him? Her heart twisted painfully again in her chest as she quickly blinked back tears. Hoping he hadn’t seen the wet sheen in her eyes, she allowed him to release her wrist before twirling around and moving as fast as she could towards the group she had been moving towards in the first place.

 

She appeared at the poker table in record time, where she quickly deposited the empty glasses on the felt top table. “Hey Dinah, how’s it goin’?”

 

Dinah sent a smile to (Joe? She was pretty sure now it was Joe). “It’s . . . it’s goin’, Joe, it’s goin’ . . .” She spoke, hesitantly, and was relieved to see that he didn’t object and ask what was going on in her life to give him such an answer. He continued to smile as she continued: “You?”

 

Joe nodded. “Same shit, different day. Here, let me introduce yas to my boys. Dinah, this is Pete, Vito, and Henry. Guys, this is Dinah Snow, the best damn good lookin’ dame in all of Rapture!” Dinah blushed at the enthusiastic greetings from Joe’s friends, and gave a quick wave.

 

“Thanks, Joe, ya too kind . . .” She spoke, halfway grumbled, and Joe nodded vaguely, although his expression was now blank as he gazed at something behind her.

 

“Yeah, don’t mention it – ya, uh . . . ya seem to have an admirer there, Dinah.”

 

Dinah froze, for the first time feeling a pair of eyes burn into her back. She felt a fluttering feeling in her heart, knowing inherently that it was Fontaine. _Did_ he remember her after all? Then why didn’t he acknowledge her?

 

“Ya want us to go have a talk with him?”

 

Dinah jumped at Joe’s words, before giving him a smile and a shake of her head. A cruel, twisted part of her wanted to laugh. Even the four of them going at him at the same time, wouldn’t be able to touch Fontaine. The man would hand all of them their asses on silver platters. “Uh, no, that’s unnecessary, Joe. He asked for some bourbon a few minutes ago, and is probably getting impatient. I better go get it for him.” Joe gave a slow nod, although his eyes were narrowed in an emotion she couldn’t rightly decipher for a moment. Giving them each a smile and telling them to enjoy, she turned and headed back to the bar. Fontaine was facing forward again, although she saw him turn to look at her when she passed him by. She ignored him and instead, moved to the bar, where she ordered him his double shot of bourbon.

 

She waited patiently for Louie to pour the drink, before giving him a smile and picking it up. As she walked back to Fontaine, however, all the hurt she had been feeling since she saw him, disappeared in favor of anger that settled like a lead ball in her stomach. Whether he recognized her or not, how _dare_ he act like he didn’t? After everything they had been through – after everything they had _done_ together, how _dare_ he act like he didn’t recognize her? For the love of God – _how_ do you forget the woman who you fucked on a sack of contraband beans fresh from the surface, down in the fisheries one cool Monday morning before the morning shift started?

 

Yup. Right on a sack of beans. Long story, don’t ask.

 

By the time she reached him, she was fuming, and while she knew it was careless and extremely dangerous for her to do so, she stopped in front of him. He continued to ignore her like she was just any other waitress who was delivering him his drink, and her jaw hardened and her teeth grit at the sight. Dropping the glass of bourbon in front of him, it hit the table and spilled, sloshing the sharp smell of bourbon all over his lap. With an infuriated yowl, Fontaine jumped to his feet, cursing and quickly slapping at the suit legs of his pants, as if that would magically clean them of the alcohol. Dinah continued to stand there, one hand cocked on her hip, as well as an eyebrow, and waited for him to stop ranting about how that suit was made out of a certain material that would be _impossible_ to get the alcohol out of, and by God, she would _rue_ the day she ever fucked up one of Frank Fontaine’s suits!

 

Finally, he stopped, and turned an infuriated gaze onto her, which she met evenly and coolly. The entire casino had gone silent, save for Django Reinhardt on the jukebox, whose instruments played out the uplifting tune of “Belleville”. The men who was sitting at his table held looks of shock and terror on their faces, not daring to believe that this tiny _waitress_ had the _balls_ to spill Frank Fontaine’s tumbler of bourbon on him!

 

His expression cooled and hardened slightly, despite, quite clearly, his anger remaining. One of her eyebrows arched. “There’s your bourbon, _Cueball_.” She spoke, and the looks of terror on his friend’s faces, deepened. Fontaine’s anger cooled drastically, though, and a look of slight curiosity entered it as she turned around and moved towards the door leading to the back of the casino and which would eventually lead to the Fort Frolic loading bay. She could completely understand the looks of terror on his friend’s faces at her calling him “Cueball”. What was normally a slang term that would have gotten any man punched on the spot and then later killed, was a twisted sort of term of endearment coming from Dinah – always had been. And while her words had been dripping with sarcasm and venom when she spoke, there was nevertheless a quiet warmth there that she knew Fontaine hadn’t missed. Whether he had been faking or not, he damn well recognized her now.

* * *

When she returned to the casino after being borated by her boss for a good hour over pissing off _Frank Fontaine_ of all men (“You mine-as-well have gone ahead and pissed on Andrew Ryan and Augustus Sinclair at the _same time_ to even get a _fraction_ of the shitstorm we are probably gonna get from Frank Fontaine!” He had yelled, rather loudly), she found the place halfway empty. Didn’t surprise her. Once twelve rolled around, people started clearing for the Kashmir and other restaurants for some food before heading home or to Eve’s Garden or one of the other nightclubs. The party of Rapture was known for staying up into the wee hours of the morning, if stopping at all some nights.

 

Everyone was gone. Except for Him.

 

She had to do a double take when she first came out – that was how surprised she was to see him still sitting at that same poker table. Fontaine had lingered until he was one of the last people still there. He sat there, smoking and sipping on one of those double shots of bourbon he had been getting all night, and all while looking deep in thought. After a moment, she heaved a sigh and picked up her tray, where she moved over to him.

 

“Look sir, is there anything else I can get you? My shift’s almost over, and I --” She asked, hoping her voice was sufficiently cool enough. At the sound of her voice, though, he turned his eyes up to hers and it was then – _finally_ – that a warm gleam of recognition appeared in his gaze, which caused to come to a quick stop.

 

“How ya doin’ Dinah?”

* * *

Albert Hibbler’s “Count Every Star” was playing over the jukebox now, as Dinah took a slow, shaky seat beside him at the now empty poker table. Her heart gave a twist in her chest. She noticed by the pursing of Fontaine’s lips, that he felt something similar. This song fitted eerily into their relationship at that point.

 

After a moment, Fontaine heaved a sigh and leaned forward, where he took her hand in both of his. His gaze locked with hers and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and crooning – the same tone he adopted with her when he did something stupid and wanted to atone for it. “I miss ya, Dinah. I didn’ think I would when we parted ways, but . . .” He heaved those massive shoulders of his and looked away. The pad of his thumb traced over each of the tiny knuckles in her hand as he had done countless times before. “A man gets tired of being lonely.”

 

Dinah released a scoff of laughter, and his thumb stopped its tracing. “Lonely? You, Frank Fontaine, lonely? _Please_!” She gave another laugh and a shake of his head. “Frank, ya’ve got enough money now to where ya could have any woman in Rapture ya wanted! Hell, even _Jolene_ would give ya the time of day now! So, excuse me, if I pass on the plate of bullshit ya tryin’ to hand me. After all, didn’ ya _just_ go the past few hours and act like ya didn’t even know me from Adam? Ya know how much that hurt?”

 

Fontaine’s eyes darkened then and she couldn’t help but swallow hard. Even for her, someone who knew the intricacies of his moods and dark gazes well, couldn’t help but feel a slight tingling of fear at the sight of them shifting and changing gears. Even though she knew Frank Fontaine like the back of her hand, he was still a fearsome man and not one you wanted to casually fuck with. No matter how well she knew him, she was all too aware how easy it was for him to do a complete one eighty, temper wise.

 

“It’s _not_ bullshit, Dinah! And I’m sorry for that, I didn’ . . . I didn’ know how to approach ya. I didn’ know if I _should_ approach ya. And besides, do ya know how hard it is, having to keep shit to myself ‘cause I can’t trust anyone down here? Do ya know how hard it is going without my right hand, anymore?” His thumb began tracing her knuckles again, and Dinah released a reflexive shiver. That was the thing about Frank Fontaine – he had those kinds of touches that lit her entire body on fire – even the most innocent ones. His voice lowered to that intimate, crooning tone again. “None of these girls are you, Dinah. _Jolene_ isn’t you, Dinah. And besides,” He gave a small smile that she couldn’t help but share. “Ya know yaself that I’ve never been a big fan of blondes . . .”

 

Dinah smiled, and it was then that Fontaine reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, where he withdrew a cigarette case thinner than the one that held his cigars. Opening it, he held it out to her along with a jauntily cocked brow. “Smoke?”

 

Dinah’s fingers itched to take one of them, knowing inherently that it was real, honest-to-God surface tobacco. Noticing the amused smile on Fontaine’s face at how long she was taking, she quickly snatched one from it and placed it in-between her lips before he could say anything snarky. He withdrew one as well and did the same. After placing the case on the felt table beside him, he reached back in and withdrew a lighter. This one was a gleaming silver, engraved with two letter F’s and intricate filigree. Keenly, she also saw the glint of a gold pocket watch from the inside coat pocket of his jacket; the gold chain, which looped around to clip to his front pocket lapel, polished to an almost reverential shine. She smiled as she leaned forward allowed him to light her cigarette for her, cupping his hand around the flame, before he lit his own. Seems like he still carried the watch around him, and took care of it too, by the looks of it.

 

She allowed a smug feeling to slowly burn along her body.

 

Dinah sat back in her chair and closed her eyes as she inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs. Tilting her head back, she released an almost orgasmic groan as she issued the long plume of smoke from in-between her lips to the ceiling.

 

Fontaine chuckling, was what brought her back down into reality. Turning her eyes back onto him, she watched as he replaced the lighter and cigarette case back into the inside pocket from whence they had come, a sly smile on his face the entire time. “I remember when I could make you make those sounds, Dinah . . .” He spoke, his tone low and intimate compared to how it had been, and immediately, Dinah blushed scarlet and lowered her eyes away from his to observe the burning butt of the cigarette in-between her fingers. She could, too . . . _vividly_. Frank Fontaine had been _very_ good at unashamedly coaxing those kinds of sounds from her throat.

 

Had it suddenly gotten hotter in there? Dinah wasn’t sure.

 

“Why are you here, Frank?”

 

Fontaine chuckled and took a drag off his cigarette. “It’s a casino, Dinah – open to the public. And last time I cared to check: _I’m_ the public. Or, part of it, anyway.”

 

Dinah shook her head and flicked the butt of her cigarette off into the seashell ashtray he quickly slid between them. “No, I mean, why are you _here_? Why did you stay here once I spilled ya drink on ya?” She looked away again and gave a small shrug. “And . . . sorry . . . for the suit, by the way. I was angry.”

 

Fontaine shook his head and flicked off his burning butt, too. A long plume of gray smoke was blown through his nose. “Don’ mention it. Like ya said -- you were angry. I get that. I also get _why_ you were angry,” He heaved a sigh and stamped out his cigarette before leaning forward. His hand took up hers again, immediately earning him her complete and undivided attention. “I want ya to come work for me, Dinah.”

 

Dinah’s eyebrows threatened to disappear up into her hairline. “Come _work_ for ya? Doin’ _what_?”

 

“It’s come to my attention that I have a recent opening as my secretary.”

 

Dinah cocked an eyebrow, amusement filling her gaze. “Did ya old one quit on ya or have ya decided to fire her since I sat down and started talkin’ to ya?”

 

Fontaine eyed her for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was back to that quiet, intimate tone. “I know who my friends are, Dinah.”

 

“ _Oh_ , Jesus, now _that_ is rich! Richest thing I’ve heard in years, in fact!” She spoke with a bark of caustic laughter. She laughed for a few seconds, before grinning and speaking: “Where were ya when I was strugglin’ to make ends meet at Eve’s Garden and the Kashmir before I finally came here? Where the fuck were ya all those months that got ya where _you_ are now, while I continued to languish in ‘Pollo Square livin’ paycheck to paycheck in a shitty little rundown apartment while ya left get to live high on the hog up in that condo you got in Olympus Heights?” She leaned forward then, her fingers pressing down on the table in-between them. “Where were ya when ya _left me_ , Frank? And what about all those years we were fuckin’, huh? I don’ think we have _ever_ qualified as bein’ _just friends_ throughout the entire length of the years that we’ve known each other!” Fontaine continued to hold her gaze throughout her rant, and when she was done, she sat there, chest heaving with renewed anger. “Just . . . so ya know!” She uttered, her voice barely audible, and Fontaine a cold, tight smile.

 

“Are ya done?”

 

She shook her head. “Not nearly. But that’s all I’ve got to say to ya for now.”

 

There was so much she wanted to say to him now that he was there. There was so much she needed to _tell him_.

 

There was so much he needed to _know_!

 

After a moment of silence, he heaved a sigh and flicked off the burning butt of his own cigarette into the seashell ashtray between them. “Look, Dinah, I know what I did to ya was wrong. I brought ya down here, I should have continued to look out for ya – take care of ya! But I’m here now, and that’s all that should matter. And now, I’m more than willin’ to look after ya like I _should_ have in the first place! Take this job, Dinah, please. Let me make everythin’ up to ya.”

 

 _You bastard. You_ bloody _bastard! There’s some things, Frank Fontaine, that ya_ never _gonna make up for – not in ya_ wildest _of dreams!_ She wanted to scream at him and which she _did_ scream at him in her head. However, she managed to bite back both her tongue and her anger, and smiled at him – the prettiest, stickiest sweet smile she could muster. Come to think of it . . . maybe she _could_ use him . . .

 

It took a minute, but eventually, she nodded as she took a long drag off her cigarette. Taking it away, she issued out a long plume of nervous smoke. “Yeah . . . yeah, I can come by tomorrow, I think.” She told him, and immediately, his grin caused her heart to flutter in her chest. What was it about Frank Fontaine that made her feel so giddy and on top of the world whenever he was around her?

 

Nodding, he stamped out his cigarette. “Good – _great_! I’ll meet you at my office – you know how to get there right? Fontaine Futuristics?”

 

Get there? How could she not? It was _only_ one of the biggest fucking buildings in Rapture! If you _couldn’t_ get there, then you needed to have your head examined!

 

 _Thoroughly_.

 

She continued to smile, though, and nodded. “Yeah, I know how to get there. Do I need to know anything – codes or secret passwords or handshakes?”

 

The corners of his mouth threatened to turn upwards into a smile at the inside joke that fell between them, reminding him of their life back on the surface, as he rose to his feet. Secret passwords and handshakes had been some of the methods on how he had run things back up at the Bronx. Down here, they were archaic and positively laughable. But up there, they were one of the staples of business.

 

Smiling, he bent down and pressed a loving kiss to her cheek. “Don’ worry, doll – you’ll be cleared to come up.” He told her, and she nodded as he straightened back up. Her cheeks burning from the sweet gesture, she didn’t return his smile before he turned and walked to the front entrance. She watched him go – watched him leave the casino – and had to sit there for a moment, telling herself that the entire encounter had been very much real, and not a figment of her imagination.


	3. Chapter 2

_The Bronx,_

_1942_

Dinah Snow, _lived_ to be the bane of her overbearing mother’s existence. In the Bronx, it wasn’t that hard to do if Dinah put her mind to it.

 

The thing that Mariam Snow had wanted most in life, was a daughter who would grow up to be everything that she hadn’t. She would be beautiful and poised, intelligent but demure. She could pick her dresses and style her hair and take her to all the Manhattan debutante balls, where she would snag a rich businessman or advertising mogul. The sky would be the _limit_ for her daughter, Mariam Snow knew, as she glowed with pride while pregnant, however . . . little Dinah, had other ideas.

 

Dinah hated dresses. She hated styling her hair, and putting on makeup. She found high heels insufferable, and would rather have eaten dirt than keep her mouth shut in the face of stupidity (which was _frequent_ ). She was too smart for her own good, her mother would often snark to her father, who would, most of the time, be sitting there at the kitchen table with a grin behind his hand as her mother recounted the list of Dinah’s latest troublemaking exploits.

 

“A lady doesn’t walk the streets wearing boys clothing!” Her mother would often fume after Dinah would arrive home, oftentimes escorted by a frowning constable. “A lady doesn’t allow oil and dirt to live like squatters underneath her fingers! A lady does not allow herself to get wrapped up in petty theft and vandalism – a _lady_ does _not behave_ like _you_ do!”

 

Dinah lived like a street urchin, even at sixteen, and wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

“I don’t understand why you do this – you’re so _beautiful_ , Di!” Mariam bemoaned that one faithful afternoon when Dinah came tromping into the kitchen wearing her signature brown trousers, leather boots, white shirt, and brown vest. Her long, thick black hair – which had been down to the middle of her back at that time of her life – was curled and tucked up underneath a brown newspaper boy’s cap. She had been sixteen then, her budding, shapely body hidden beneath baggy boy’s clothes. “If only you’d clean yourself up – you could get yourself a man who loves you within _seconds_!”

 

“Funny, that, ma . . . I wouldn’t love _him_!” She would almost always retort, in that clipped, irritable tone of hers that she always found herself using when she talked to her mother. Mariam would always adopt an expressionless look on her face at those words, and normally, wouldn’t say anything. That afternoon, however, had been different. _That_ afternoon, she added on a few more words that caused Dinah to stop dead in her tracks.

 

“Dinah, do you . . . do you even _like_ men?”

 

The words hit her like an anvil, and upon screeching to a stop, her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in stark shock. Twirling around, she pinned her mother with an: “Are-You- _Serious_?” look. Her mother hurried to explain herself: “It’s just that . . . Di, baby, you’ve never . . . you’ve never once showed an interest in men before, really. At all of the balls we go to, you’ve never _once_ shown an interest –!”

 

Dinah releasing a barking laugh, caused her mother to come to an abrupt stop. Shaking her head, Dinah continued to laugh for a moment before speaking: “Mother, I want to be with a woman _just_ as much as you wanna be with the colored grocer down the street!" She snapped, which immediately caused a scandalized look to appear on her mother’s face. “And _on_ that matter, the _only_ reason I haven’ shown an interest in _any_ of those so-called “men”, is because, quite frankly, mother, _I_ have bigger balls than they do!”

 

“ _Dinah Snow_!”

 

But Dinah was on a roll, and she refused to back down when she was on a roll. “And I _refuse_ – flat out _refuse_ – to be with a man who cannot handle who I am – flaws, fieriness, stubbornness, and all -- let alone, someone who can’t keep conversation with me for longer than five minutes without feeling their manhood bein’ challenged by a woman who can actually _think_!”

 

She left her still scandalized mother sitting there at the kitchen table, as she slammed the door shut before stomping down the stairs, fuming the entire time. There it was: veritable _proof_ that her mother did not know _anything_ about her! Was she interested in women, _indeed_! How could she even _think_ that? Just because she dressed like a boy, didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in them!

 

If she was perfectly honest with herself, she didn’t want a boy. She didn’t want one of those guys that she ran with, or who were at all those dumb debutante balls that her mother constantly dragged her, kicking and screaming, to. Those weren’t men, she thought – they were _boys_. She _wanted_ a man. Whatever that meant to her young, sixteen-year-old mind, anyway.

 

Just her luck that she would find that man just that afternoon.

 

“Hey, Di, ya made it!”

 

She grinned upon meeting up with Seamus and Harry, two other sixteen-year-old ne’er-do-wells that she had known and palled around with since they were old enough to be allowed outside of their mother’s sights. Seamus was tall and dark-haired, and if not for the pimples that covered his face, would have been considered handsome. Harry was squat, a little chubby, and with a head of fire red hair that would have made a leprechaun envious.

 

After rolling her eyes, she gave a nod, and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Yeah, for a minute I didn’ think I would. Ma was _majorly_ on my ass today!” Her two friends laughed as she lightly punched Seamus on the arm. “So what are we doin’ today, guys? What kind of mischief are we gettin’ into?”

 

Seamus and Harry shared a grin that caused Dinah’s to lengthen considerably. She loved that grin. Meant her two partners-in-crime had a good one for them this afternoon.

 

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Seamus sniffed, and shifted slightly from foot-to-foot. “Old Man Goldstein has a new pocket watch. He keeps it in his front suit pocket. It looks expensive.”

 

“ _Really_ expensive!” Harry added almost greedily, his bright green eyes almost swallowed up by the amount of pudge that surrounded them.

 

Dinah smirked and cocked her hip as one of her brows arched. “And how are we gonna sell this expensive pocket watch without drawin’ attention once we get it? If it’s Old Man Goldstein’s, then ya know it’s gonna be too hot to sell for a very long time!”

 

Seamus and Harry shared another look. “I know someone a few blocks over – someone my brother told me about,” Harry spoke up. “He said he’d buy the watch off us if we manage to nap it.”

 

Dinah arched a skeptical brow at him. She didn’t trust men she hadn’t worked with before – they had a mean habit of being cops undercover, or even other thieves who wouldn’t hesitate to gip you out of your hard-earned money. “Are ya _sure_ he can be trusted?” She asked, and Harry nodded so enthusiastically then, that Dinah almost believed him. Almost.

 

After a moment of thought that caused her two friends who eventually adopt looks of uncertainty on their faces, Dinah caused them to visibly relax when she grinned and gave a wink. “Okay then. Come on – let’s go do it! A good test of my skills, I think!” She spoke, positively brimming in overconfidence that had the two of them grinning. Giving each other high fives, they turned on their heels and ran down the street to where Old Man Goldstein could normally be found at that hour of the day.

 

They came to a stop in an adjacent alleyway to the newsstand he was perusing, and the three of them peered cautiously around the corner, scoping out their target. “Okay . . . okay, here’s what we’re gonna do . . .” Dinah spoke, her tone quieter than they had expected, but full of an authority that many people would become surprised at coming from such a small person. She gave a confidant nod of her head. “Seamus, you be the distraction. Harry, you do the lookout. While Seamus is distractin’ the Old Man, I’ll sneak in and pick his pocket for the watch. Sound good to ya two?”

 

They nodded, and Dinah and Harry hunkered down as Seamus casually walked out from around the corner that acted as their cover. Hands buried deep in his woolen pockets, he wandered over to the newsstand, where he perused the magazines and newspapers and books on display for a moment. After that moment was over, he glanced over at Old Man Goldstein, and smiled. Leaning in close to him, he spoke something – something that immediately got the old man’s attention. This, surprisingly, led into a very animated conversation, with Old Man Goldstein doing a majority of the talking, and Seamus standing there so casually, and with an expression of interest clear on his pimply face. Harry and Dinah both grinned.

 

“He’s got ‘em!” Harry hissed, and Dinah nodded and glanced up at him.

 

“Keep watch?”

 

“Yeah, yeah – _go – quick_ – before he loses ‘em!”

 

That grin remaining on her face, Dinah darted out from around the corner, and made a beeline towards Old Man Goldstein. She could see the twinkle of the gold pocket watch and it’s chain from his coat pocket, and for a split moment, marveled at the fact that he didn’t have it pinned in place. She would have thought something was amiss, if it didn’t look brand new and was entirely possible that he simply _forgot._

 

Sinking down on her haunches, she sat there for a moment before she slowly, _carefully_ , reached her hand into his coat pocket. She could hear the conversation Seamus was having with him – didn’t really care what the topic was – but felt her heart sink down into her stomach when Old Man Goldstein spoke – in a very excited tone:

 

“Wait one moment – I have it right here in my pocket!”

 

From around him, she saw Seamus’ eyes widen in horror, and felt her entire body go cold, right when the old man turned slightly and saw her kneeling there, her hand in his coat pocket, and her fingers brushing against the gold pocket watch. He stood there and simply gazed at her in befuddlement for a moment, as if he could hardly comprehend what he was looking at, before his face contorted into a look of outrage. She smiled, and her hand closed around the watch.

 

“Gotta go!”

 

“Wait! No, stop – come back here, you little rotten thief! Police – _police_!”

 

Dinah had yanked her hand back out of his pocket like it was on fire, the pocket watch moving to press against her breastbone with particular protectiveness. Backpedaling, her heart sunk further when she saw that Old Man Goldstein’s shouts had indeed drawn police from across the street,

 

Just her luck.

 

Whirling around, she opened her mouth to shout for Seamus and Harry to run, but . . . found herself standing there in a growing, muttering crowd, completely alone . . . with the boys nowhere in sight. She stood there for a moment, her mind whirling with confusion and her body frozen with the same emotion, before she felt an iron clad grip close around her arm. Whirling around, she saw the angry face of a policeman glaring down at her.

 

“What’cha got there, boy?” He asked, and Dinah grit her teeth as she brought her knee up hard into the policeman’s groin. He released a wheeze, and his grip on her arm disappeared. As his companion shouted out for her to stop, she whirled around on her heels and ran as fast as she could down the nearby alley, her heart pounding in her chest the entire time.

 

They left her. They _actually_ left her. She couldn’t believe them! She called them her _friends_!

 

She could feel the police behind her – hear the leather soles of their shoes slap loudly against the pavement underneath their feet. She pushed herself faster, and could already feel her lungs screaming for air as she drew them in open-mouthed in great gulps.

 

She couldn’t get caught – she simply _couldn’t_! What would her parents say?

 

What would her mother say?

 

Lunging around the next corner, desperate to lose her pursuers, she instead released a pained “oof” as she felt herself collide painfully into something. She would have fallen backwards onto her ass, if a strong hand hadn’t snapped out and wrapped another uncomfortable steel grip around her arm. Mind continuing to whirl with the implications of what would happen if she was caught, she gazed up at the man she had slammed into, only to immediately release a squeak of fright. He wasn’t a policeman (which was a huge relief) but _was_ big, and mean looking, and held about the most frightening damn scowl she had ever seen on someone’s face before. He was standing with two other men, a squatter, bulkier one, and a third, who leaned against the brick wall behind him, arms crossed in front of his broad, muscular chest, cigarette burning in-between the first two fingers of his left hand as it cupped his elbow. One booted foot was cocked and pinned to the wall, and his brown eyes were full of curiosity as he gazed at her, wondering at her sudden appearance among them. His hair was thick and brown, and just begging for a woman’s fingers to run through it.

 

In other words, he was gorgeous. Utterly fucking gorgeous.

 

“Hey, watch where ya goin’, kid! Jus’ ‘cause ya ain’ nothin’ but a boy, doesn’ mean I won’ hesitate to beat some street sense inta ya!” The intimidating looking one who had her arm in a vice-like grip, was the one who snarled out the words, causing the squatter one to guffaw. Her heart continued to pound like mad in her chest as the one leaning against the wall, merely smiled. He took a drag off his cigarette, and gestured to her.

 

“Look again, Reggie. That ain’ no boy ya got there. That there’s a _girl_!”

 

The one who held her – Reggie – and the squat one, gazed at her in bewilderment. The one leaning against the wall, continued to smile. “Good costume ya got there. Dress like a boy for fun, or jus’ ‘cause ya wanna?”

 

Dinah was so terrified. She knew she should struggle – should _try_ and break free of the man’s grip so that she could continue to run and _try_ to outrun the cops, but she could hardly take his eyes off the one leaning against the wall. There was something about him that inexplicably drew her to him in a primal, innate way. Maybe it was those beautiful brown eyes of his, or even the way he gazed at her and immediately saw her for who she was -- she didn’t know. Neither, did she know why she spoke when she did.

 

“Help me, please! I’ve got the cops on my tail, and I need . . .” She swallowed hard and threw a panicked gaze over her shoulder. They hadn’t rounded the corner yet, but she knew they were close. They had to be. “I-I need a cover!”

 

The man’s eyebrows rose as the two men laughed. The one named Reggie, elbowed him in the side. “Hear that, Frank? Little Miss. Crossdresser wants ya help! Doesn’ even know who she’s askin’!”

 

The two meatheads continued to laugh as she stood there and held his expressionless gaze. Hers was pleading -- silently begging him to help her -- and after a moment, the man named Frank nodded, and pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against. Taking one last drag off his cigarette, he threw it down to the sidewalk and stamped it out while issuing out a stream of gray smoke. He gestured to her.

 

“Let her go.”

 

Reggie did as he asked, and his two friends watched, dumbfounded, as “Frank” calmly moved past them to the entrance of the alleyway, taking her firmly by the shoulder as he did so. The running of footsteps could be heard, along with shouts, and when they were close enough, was when Frank turned a positively thunderous look onto her. Knocking the hat from her head and causing her thick dark waves to tumble down her back, he snapped out:

 

“ _Dammit_ , Katrina, _what_ did I tell ya?”

 

Dinah’s eyes widened in shock as she heard a crack, and felt a sharp pain across her cheek, which she immediately covered with her hand. There was a yanking down of her vest, and through the sheen of tears stinging her eyes, she saw Frank hurriedly hand the vest to Reggie, who shoved it into his coat. He pried the pocket watch out of her hand and shoved it down into his own front pocket before quickly -- but surprisingly gentle -- pushing her face to the side, hiding it behind her hair, as the police came huffing into view.

 

“What have I told ya, woman?” He continued, his voice still thunderous, as he wrapped a tight hand around her upper arm, where he shook her. “Don’t. _Fuckin’_. Go out. Dressed that way!” 

 

She bit down on her lower lip to keep the tears at bay, and hoped the thundering of her heart was not audible. She could feel the two policemen standing beside them, heard them ask Frank in breathless voices if they had seen a young man run through here with a gold pocket watch. Frank, in a slightly irritated tone of voice, mentioned that he hadn’t, before proceeding to continue lambasting “Katrina” on how he had told her, time after time, to not go out dressed like a man, and if she continued doing it, then by _God_ \--!

 

“What about you men?” The policemen asked Reggie and the other, squatter guy standing beside them. They gave nonchalant shrugs.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Nuh-uh. Haven’ seen ‘em, Officer.”

 

One of the officers cursed as they began looking up and down the street. Frank’s hand wrapped with far more kindness, around her upper arm, where he pulled her off to the side. Reggie and the other man moved to stand beside them, effectively cutting them off from view of the police. After a moment, they moved off, cursing and muttering bitterly to themselves, and Dinah watched them go with wide eyes.

 

“Ya okay, doll? ‘M sorry if I got too rough there . . .” Frank asked, his tone sounding concerned as Reggie and the other guy stepped back slightly. Reaching into his coat, Reggie withdrew the vest, and handed it back to her, as did Frank with the watch. Nodding, she took both from the men, and hugged them to her chest.

 

“It’s fine. Really, it is! Anythin’ to keep them at bay! It doesn’ even hurt that much, anymore.” She spoke, casting a glare at them over Frank’s shoulder. Reggie grinned at her words.

 

“That’s ‘cause he barely tapped ya, honey! Frank would have given ya everythin’ ya had, and ya would have found yaself knocked out!”

 

Dinah shot him a small smile before turning her gaze back onto Frank. She barely missed the glare Frank sent his friend, before turning a much softer look onto her. “Thank ya, again. I owe ya a lot.” She told him, and he replied by returning her smile.

 

“Don’ mention it. Ya need someone to walk ya home, doll?”

 

Dinah’s smile grew slightly, and she shook her head. “No, I’m fine. I don’ live far from here, I don’ think. I should be fine.”

 

Frank nodded, continuing to smile, as she moved past them and down the street. They watched her go for a moment, before Reggie released a bark of a laugh. “Man, Frank, why’d ya let a hot little number like that walk away? And without askin’ for a reward, neither?”

 

Frank’s smile turned upwards slightly, as he turned his attention back onto his friends. “I didn’ ask for a reward, ‘cause I know she’ll be back. In fact . . .” He trailed off, and returned his gaze onto her quickly retreating form. “I can’ wait.”


	4. Chapter 3

She arrived back at home quickly, avoiding her mother and father’s questioning glances as she zoomed through the front door and to her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she locked the door rather securely before placing the watch on her desk and backing quickly away. Eyes glued onto the damn thing, she almost wanted to hurl it at the wall or out the window to shatter on the sidewalk below. She knew she should never have ever agreed to pickpocket the damn thing – should have known by the flash of gold as it rested in Old Man Goldstein’s pocket, that it would be valuable and loved. But then again, Dinah had never been one to _not_ let an opportunity pass that allowed her to show off her skills, so she supposed – in her position, anyway – pride did come before the fall.

 

And her friends . . . Harry and Seamus had never cut out on her before when things got sticky like that. They had always stuck around until either the last possible minute, or until she shouted for them to run. They had never before ditched her, and Dinah couldn’t help but feel hurt, as well as angry and confused. She didn’t know if she wanted to confront them about it, or simply cut them off. But then, she remembered that she really didn’t have any other friends besides them, and supposed that _maybe_ she could hear their sides of the story before making _too_ many hasty judgements.

 

Turning, she took a seat on her bed before running her fingers through her thick hair. She stiffened when she realized that her hat was missing. Glancing frantically around her, she then remembered that it was still probably on the sidewalk from when Frank had knocked it from her head. Moving to sag against the wall behind her, she let out a groan of disbelief. How could she had been as stupid as to have forgotten her hat? She had remembered her vest, but then again, Reggie _had_ shoved it into her arms _before_ she could forget it. She supposed . . . she bit down on her bottom lip in uncertainty when it occurred to her that she _could_ attempt to track them down tomorrow and retrieve her hat – _if_ they had still it. If not, then . . .

 

Her eyes landed on the watch lying on the dark wood of her desk. She supposed she _ought_ to reward Frank for helping her when he so clearly didn’t have to. He had put himself in the line of fire by shielding her from the police – not exactly a small matter. As to whether or not he would accept the watch as a reward, would remain to be seen. She couldn’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t, though.

* * *

She woke up that morning, and knew right off the bat, that some things would have to change. Namely, that she couldn’t  _possibly_ go track down and thank Frank while wearing boys’ clothing. That simply wouldn’t do. However, looking at her closet while feeling her upper lip start to curl in distaste at the sight of the dresses within that her mother had picked out at Macy’s in the  _hope_ that she would see them and change her mind about her so-called “crossdressing”, had her . . . a tad bit overwhelmed, to say the least.

 

So, it was with great reluctance, that Dinah rather sheepishly, moved into the kitchen that next morning. Her father was gone, probably off to work, and this alone made some of the pressure on her shoulders, disappear. For some reason, she thought her father would be a tad bit disappointed to hear that his usually stubborn, head-strong daughter, was finally giving into her mother’s wishes and wants. And, of course, she knew her mother would tell him later what their daughter left the house dressed in, she just didn’t want him to actually bear _witness_ to it.

 

Her mother was standing at the kitchen counter, making a fresh pot of coffee in her light blue terrycloth robe. She was humming to herself as she sway slowly and gently back and forth. Dinah swallowed hard. “M-Ma, can I . . . can I ask ya somethin’?”

 

Mariam Snow briefly glanced at her daughter over her shoulder before returning to the pot of coffee she was making. “Of course, sweetie. What is it?”

 

Dinah released a long, shuddering breath before moving to stand beside her. Mariam glanced at her again, this time her gaze full of curiosity. However, she did not speak. She allowed her to continue at her own pace. “Can I . . . can I get your opinion on a dress to wear today?”

 

For a moment, there was absolute stillness in the room. Mariam turned to fully face her daughter, and gazed at her like she had suddenly turned purple _and_ grew two extra heads, all at the same time. “Are you serious?” She asked, her tone suggesting that she very much thought this was just some cruel prank, and Dinah gave a firm nod.

 

“Y-yeah. I’m meetin’ with someone today, and I want to . . . ya know . . . look good . . . when I do.”

 

Mariam arched an almost playful brow, and smiled. Moving to lean on the counter with one hand, she cocked her hip and placed her other hand on said hip. “Meeting with someone? This someone wouldn’t happen to be a _boy_ , now would it?”

 

Even though Dinah knew all she would be doing was giving him the watch as thanks, she couldn’t help but blush furiously at her mother’s words. It was such a furious blush, in fact, that she turned her face down to the floor so that her mother wouldn’t see it, although she knew she had. She had never thought of Frank like that before, but then again . . . as she stood there and thought about it, she realized that maybe . . . maybe that _was_ the real reason she was wanting to get dressed up – _dolled_ up, as her father would say. If it was just a simple reward and a retrieval of her hat, then wouldn’t it not bother her to show up dressed in her typical boy’s clothing? However, here she was, swallowing her pride long enough to ask her mother which dress would look best, and all while thinking how good it would feel to both feel and see Frank’s beautiful brown eyes wind over her figure through the dress.

 

After a moment, she gave a nod. “Yeah . . . yeah, it is a boy.” She spoke, while mentally correcting herself. _Man_ , she thought. _Frank is definitely a_ man _, not a boy_. Of course, she didn’t know _how_ old he was, but she couldn’t imagine he was a day under twenty.

 

Her mother smiled, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, where she steered her slowly towards her room. “Well, come on then, I have a lot to do and very little time to do it, I think. Now, there is a red one that would positively _ravishing_ on you, but I really think the _blue_ would be more appropriate . . .”

* * *

 

They were indeed in the same place as yesterday, Frank and his friends, when Dinah found them. Walking down the sidewalk towards them, she slowed when she neared them, uncertain if she would approach without their knowledge first. Eventually, though, Frank’s eyes landed on hers, and they were soft and welcoming as he nodded to her.

 

“If it isn’ _Katrina_!” He spoke, and she gave him a small smile as she finally approached them.

 

“Actually, it’s, uh . . . it’s Dinah. Dee-nah, not Die-nah. Dinah Snow.” She told him, while sticking out her hand, and he nodded. Taking a short drag off his cigarette, he blew out a quick plume of smoke before taking her hand and shaking it.

 

“Nice to formally make ya acquaintance, Dinah Snow. I’m Frank – Frank Fontaine. This fine gentleman standin’ beside me is Reggie O’Donnell, the other numbskull is Doogie Flanery.”

 

Smiling, she inclined her head to the both of them, who gave quick nods back. She could feel Frank’s eyes burn into her, and the feeling only abated when she returned her eyes onto him. It was also then, that he chose to spoke. “So what’cha doin’ back here, doll? Not runnin’ from the cops again in that _dress_ , are ya?”

 

Dinah flushed a little, and glanced down at the blue dress she was wearing, hoping that it wasn’t too frumpy, despite the slightly shorter than average hemlines, and the sweetheart neckline. She shook her head. “No, I jus’ . . .” She trailed off, and shook her head while releasing a slightly nervous sounding laugh. “Look, here, I . . . I want ya to have this. As thanks for savin’ my ass yesterday,” She spoke as Fontaine silenced his two still chuckling goons with a narrowed look, and as she handed the watch over to him, while trying all the while to not have her hands shake as she did so. “My two good-for-nothin’ friends did nothin’ to help me, and yet . . . you were a complete stranger who helped me when he didn’ have to. That calls for a reward, I think . . .”

 

Vaguely, she knew she was rambling, and vaguely, she knew something as simple as a pocket watch might not interest him in the least. But the more Frank turned the golden pocket watch around in his hand, and the more he looked at and observed it, the higher his eyebrows rose until they were threatening to disappear up into his hairline. A nervous shiver ran up her spine at this. Was there something wrong with it?

 

After a moment, he glanced up at her. “Ya do realize this is a Patek Philippe, right?”

 

He said it like she should know damn good and well that was what it was. Well, she didn’t, and if she was being honest, she didn’t know pocket watches _had_ name brands. For the love of God, her father’s was a generic from Macy’s! So, she gave a shrug, and as her eyes widened almost innocently so, she saw an almost amused smile come to his face. “No . . . is that good?”

 

Fontaine gave a chuckle. “No wonder he had the cops chase ya down, doll! This watch it’s . . . it’s very expensive. Ya could get a lot for it if ya know the right people.” He told her, and while she knew by the surprised looks on his friend’s faces, that he was being uncustomarily honest with her, she gave another simple shrug again.

 

“Well, that may be, but my family, we’re not poor. We don’ want for nothin’. And besides, I wouldn’ even know how to _begin_ to go ‘bout sellin’ that thing, with how hot it probably is! And . . . how would I even explain the money to my family?”

 

Frank stood there and gazed at her for a moment, face expressionless but eyes searching her features with a speed that was almost dizzying. It was almost as if he couldn’t even _comprehend_ the definition of a “gift”, and as he stood there gazing at her, the tighter his hand curled around the pocket watch. After a moment, he looked down, opened his hand, and ran his eyes over the intricate face, and slowly hefted the weight of it. After another long string of seconds, he tucked the watch almost reverentially into the pocket of his trousers, and turned his eyes onto her. They were softer when they gazed at her now, than they had been, and they made a flower of warmth bloom in her chest.

 

“Thank ya, Dinah. I’ll be sure to cherish it.” He told her, and she couldn’t help but smile and blush as she turned her eyes down onto the sidewalk underneath their feet. A breeze blew through, ruffling the edges of her dress around her calves, and causing her to shiver slightly. She was so unused to wearing dresses, that she felt almost naked in it. But when she looked up and saw Frank’s eyes quickly run up and down her frame almost appreciatively through it, she came to the decision that maybe . . . maybe dresses weren’t that bad, after all.

* * *

 

It wasn’t that long afterwards, that Dinah found that Frank and his boys were starting to become a huge part of her life. Harry and Seamus were in the past, and, as far as she knew, still alive and kicking somewhere out there in the Bronx. She had never bothered to track them down and hear their side of the story after searching out Frank and rewarding him with the watch. In fact, after finding herself inexplicably drawn into Frank’s orbit, she found a lot of things pertaining to her old life, disappearing.

 

She stopped dressing like a boy. Dresses and skirts and heels became a staple of her wardrobe that would last well into the upcoming decades. This sudden change positively thrilled her mother, and no matter how complicated the reason for it was, she never questioned it. She finally had the daughter she always wanted: a daughter that she could go shopping with, and who would allow her to fill her closet with the latest upcoming fashions.

 

Frank wouldn’t have said anything if she insisted on continuing to dress like a boy, she knew; he was fond enough of her as it was. But then again, she also knew that he liked it when she wore dresses and her skirts. It made it easier for his grifts to go smooth, when she stood beside him, looking prim and pretty in her spring dresses skirts (the pencil skirts came later, when she was out of her mother and father’s house and could dress a little bit more risqué). It made him easier to trust, when he had a beautiful woman smiling and gushing beside him – charming everyone with her bold, carefree smile, and her beautiful blue eyes. She also knew he liked looking at her when she wore her dresses and her skirts; knew she practically held him in enthrallment when she wore her hair down to the small of her back in thick dark waves.

 

In return, he taught her grifts. He taught her how to con people. He taught her how to hustle, and cheat at poker. He taught her how to cant her head, and cock her hip, and pop her foot, and grin, to the best of her abilities in order to fully charm a man into a dark alley so that Reggie and Doogie could finish the job. He taught her how to do the Badger game, and the Spanish Prisoner, and the Fiddle game without breaking a sweat, among countless others. These romance scams, and fortune-telling frauds, and other scams that relied on her looks, in particular, were her forte, and with good reason. And as months flew by in damn near a blur, she realized that she was learning these tricks from one of the best – from one of the Masters of the game. And furthermore, she realized that she was slowly climbing to Reggie’s level of trustworthiness in his eyes. The more money she brought him, the more he confided and trusted in her. The more he seemed to gaze her as less of a student, and more as a woman.

 

Not an equal, though. She didn’t think Frank Fontaine could ever look at someone as an equal. His ego wouldn’t allow it.

 

But she figured she was starting to come pretty damn close.

 

It was after one of these scams had taken place – a particularly smooth Rip deal with a jeweler – that these realizations hit her with particular brevity. They had been standing on their usual street corner, waiting for Reggie and Doogie to meet with them after their own very lucrative poker game hosted in Brooklyn, cigarettes in-between their fingers, and the slightly chilly breezes nipping at their flesh. It was on the tail ends of summer bleeding away into fall, and already, the nights were starting to become chilly. Dinah, who was standing there without a sweater, found herself suddenly pulled against Fontaine by one of his arms wrapped around her waist. Eyes widening, she turned her gaze up to his, only to see a small, amused smile on his face.

 

“Standin’ over there shiverin’ like ya ‘bout to freeze! Didn’ ya think to bring a sweater or somethin’?” Blush tinging her cheeks slightly, Dinah buried herself into his side, grateful that he seemed to be the first cousin to a space heater. She heard him chuckle in her ear as he moved to enfold her completely in his arms, wrapping her in oh-so wonderful warmth. “Glad I could be of _some_ use . . .!”

 

“Now don’ go gettin’ the wrong idea, here, Frank! I’m jus’ usin’ ya for ya body heat!” She teased, and heard him chuckle again.

 

“Perish the thought, doll.”

 

They stayed like that for a moment, in complete and utter silence, before she broke it. “Have ya sold the watch yet?”

 

She could practically see his brows furrowing in confusion as he answered her. “What do ya mean?”

 

“The watch. The one I gave ya as a reward for savin’ my ass from the cops all those months ago. Ya said it was valuable. Have ya found someone to sell it to yet?” She asked, as she turned her face up to his, only to see a look of bewilderment cross his face. He shook his head.

 

“Now . . . why in the _hell_ would I sell that watch, Dinah?”

 

It was her turn to shake her head in bewilderment, although hers was also joined by confusion. “I . . . I only assumed --!”

 

“You gave it to me. I thought it was a gift.”

 

“It was a _reward_!”

 

“So ya _wanted_ me to sell it?”

 

“No! I-I mean . . . yes, but only if ya wanted to! I didn’ mean . . . I _don’_ mean . . . _Christ_!” Wearily, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Frank, I didn’t know --!”

 

“I told ya I would cherish the watch when ya first gave it to me, Dinah, and that’s exactly what I have been doin’. I carry the thing ‘round with me everywhere. In fact . . .” He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “I consider it my good luck charm.”

 

She turned a curious look up to him. “Ya good luck charm? Why? Whatever for?”

 

His gaze was soft again as he looked down at her, and once again, her heart gave a twist in her chest. It always gave a twist like that when he gazed down at her with that same soft look he was giving her then. Gently, he brushed a lock of her hair out of her face. “It’s my good luck charm ‘cause it’s the first gift ya ever gave me, Dinah. Why else?”

 

His words warmed her – more than anything else ever had. And while she knew he was so much older than her, and they were in the middle of public, she couldn’t help but stand on her tiptoes while pulling him downwards, so that she could press her lips to his. It was a light kiss, at first, just the outermost molecules of their lips touching, before she leaned upwards a little bit more to press hers more firmly to his. She felt his hand gently cup her face as he returned her kiss, and she did the same. It was a sweet kiss – gentle and slow and damn near as chaste as an open-mouthed kiss could be. Frank Fontaine was the first man she ever kissed, and as the taste of him swirling around her mouth and coated her lips, she knew right then and there that she didn’t ever want to kiss another man as long as she lived.

 

Eventually, she heard him chuckle as he gently pushed her away. There was a small smile on his face as he shook his head. His gaze soft as he gazed down at her. "Ya one of the good ones, Dinah – much too good for a man the likes of me. Ya don' want this. Not like this. I’m not the man ya want."

 

"I'm not so sure 'bout that, now . . ." She spoke, quietly and tentatively, as she touched his jaw with the tips of her fingers. Standing there, gazing up at him, she felt like she was on the edge of something massive and powerful, and it scared the living crap out of her while also making her heart race and her insides clench.

 

_But ya_ are _the man I want, Frank, can’ ya see that?_

 

He chuckled as he reached up and wrapped his hand gently around her wrist, where he took it away from his jaw. "Well, I am. I'm also much older and wiser than you are, so jus’ . . . jus’ let me make this call this time, Dinah okay?" He spoke before she felt his forehead sliding on her skin. Her breath hitched.

 

“But ya made so many calls already!” She spoke, her words sounding childish, even to her. Thankfully, he merely chuckled again.

 

"Fine. Wait till ya eighteen, then, okay? Think on it till then. If ya still want me in a few years, when ya hit that big one-eight, then let me know, and I'll do my best to make ya come so hard ya scream!"

 

Dinah grinned and laughed as she continued to hold him close – something that Frank more than allowed. “Well . . . can ya at least kiss me till then?” She asked, and Frank gave his own laugh as he leaned in and replanted his lips on hers again. The kiss was deeper this time, less chaste, but still just as sweet. This time, she allowed his tongue to explore her mouth, only to be chased by hers before they wrapped around each other. It was as this kiss made her head swim and her body tingle, that Dinah realized one crucial thing:

 

It was Frank Fontaine she wanted.

 

And it would always _be_ Frank Fontaine.

 

There was no going back now.

* * *

 

When she turned seventeen, Fontaine taught her the Cat in the Bag grift. She ended up accomplishing it, but with nowhere near the finesse that Fontaine had whenever he was scamming, and they, unfortunately, had to outrun the cops again (something she accomplished a little more adeptly than last time). What could she say, though – the man was a damn good actor. And according to Reggie, there was a reason for it. The both of them had practically grown up on vaudeville stages.

 

When she turned seventeen, Fontaine also taught her how to doctor gunshot wounds.

 

Tears had been falling from her eyes like waterfalls, and her hands had been shaking so badly, that for a moment, Fontaine had made her stop and calm down, lest she do even _more_ damage to his arm. She asked him if he could blame her. After all, what would he have done if she came stumbling into the room on Reggie’s arm, shouting his name while clamping a hand to a wound that flowed a startling amount of blood? Fontaine smiled and asked if that would be before or after he shot the jackass in question, in the face for hurting his girl.

 

Those words calmed her, and made butterflies appear in her stomach. Her hands also stopped shaking long enough to follow his instructions.

 

She wondered what her mother would think, if she could see who her daughter had become. She had lost the crossdressing, yes, but now . . . now, she was something darker.

* * *

When she finally turned eighteen, the guys (Fontaine, Reggie, Doogey, and a couple of their other, more illustrious friends) elected to throw her a party, full of music, smokes, and all the bootlegged liquor her heart could possibly want. The entire time, though, her gaze kept locking with Fontaine’s from across the room, who would give her an almost conspiratorial smile whenever he caught her looks. Eventually, when they find each other through the surprisingly big, she gives him a smile of her own. She reminds him of their conversation a couple years ago, and he nods and tells her that he remembers it. After looking away, suddenly feeling too bashful to look him in the eyes, she asks – much more quietly than she had intended:

 

“Ya still want me, Frank?” She asked, that image of the voluptuous, bubbly redhead from a few months ago who hung around on his arm like a prize-winning mare, sticking out plainly in her head. The redhead hadn’t lasted, though, for longer than probably a week. And afterwards, it was her on his arm like usual, Fontaine’s grins as he would smile and introduce her as “his girl”, taking up a new place of prominence in her thoughts.

 

He smiled at her question. “Like I could stop. Ya still want me?”

 

With a great deal of courage, she dragged her eyes upwards until they locked with his. She nodded. “Like I could stop.” She murmured, and Frank’s smile remained as his eyes grew soft. Throwing his cigarette to the cold cement floor, he pushed himself off of the wall he had been leaning against, and held out his hand to her.

 

“Come on, then. Let me go give you your present . . .”

* * *

When she turned eighteen, she lost her virginity to Fontaine, in his upstairs bedroom. “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” by Eddy Duchin and his Orchestra, wafted up faintly from the room below, where the party still raged, completely ambivalent to its missing birthday girl,  _and_ the guy to whom the warehouse they were hosting it in. She remembered being pressed into his great, sheet swathed bed, her senses full of him – positively buzzing with the smell and the taste of him. She remembered not screaming when she came, not because she didn’t want to, but because she  _couldn’t_ . The feelings that skyrocketed through her entire being upon that knot inside her finally bursting, caused the breath to leave her lungs and her toes to curl.

 

When she turned eighteen, she lay in bed with a man afterwards, making that pointless, inevitable small talk, and told him she loved him for the first time.

 

When she turned eighteen, that man smiled, kissed her, and told her he loved her right back.

 

When she turned eighteen, Dinah Snow thought she was on top of the world


End file.
